


Look for me in the fire

by richardthepassiveaggressiverooster



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Lemon, PWP, Smut, don’t look for it, garcy, none at all, there’s no plot, why would you want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richardthepassiveaggressiverooster/pseuds/richardthepassiveaggressiverooster
Summary: There’s not enough Garcy smut in the world. Here is flagrant plotless smut to remedy it.





	Look for me in the fire

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is dedicated to the Garcy Garbage Queen, Kelly Clarkson.

Lucy Preston is angrier than Garcia Flynn has ever seen. She’s magnificent in her anger, her eyes filled with fire, her cheeks flush with the burn, her hair wild from the winds they left behind in the 19th century.

Flynn doesn’t even mind that the anger is directed at him. It’s like basking in the sun for an hour too long, when he knows it’s going to hurt him later, but now—right now—the intensity of the blasting heat is melting him in all of the right ways.

“You didn’t need to shoot that man,” Lucy said. She’s gathering herself up, forming a wall of flame disguised by the delicate form of a historian. “You don’t know what effect that’s going to have on the future!”

Oh, the righteousness is sweeter than candy on Flynn’s tongue, cinnamon spice. He should back away from this much anger.

Instead, he moves closer.

Lucy doesn’t back down. There’s no room in Flynn’s tiny bunker bedroom, but her back is to the door, and she could walk out as easily as she walked in.

She _doesn’t_.

“I would kill him again,” Flynn says, husky and intense, boiling within the aura of Lucy’s magma heat. “I would kill him a thousand times.” He rolls the words through his accent. He bites out each syllable as if his teeth are puncturing jugulars.

“He was an inventor!” Lucy hisses.

Flynn slams a hand to the bunker beside her head. “He had a knife to your throat!”

“I would be a small price to pay to save history,” she says, and Flynn can see that she means it. That Lucy believes every moment she’s existed within hasn’t been improved immeasurably by her presence. That the very earth is not gifted for being touched by the delicate bones of her feet.

She’s not like Flynn—a plague burning through dead tissue, unconcerned if it destroys the healthy tissue on the way.

Lucy is goodness. She is _everything_. She is the star blazing at the center of Garcia Flynn’s universe, and he is helpless detritus trapped within her gravity.

He’s going to crash into her if he doesn’t get a grip.

So he seizes her arms—gently, so gently, his fingers barely bracketing her elbows while his biceps and shoulders turn to steel. He says, very clearly, “You are a price that I’ll never be willing to pay.”

Lucy’s looking at him with those searching eyes again. She sees through him. He’s read her journal but she _knows_ him—she _gets_ him—and there’s a firestorm in her soul, breaths caught in her chest, words trapped on her tongue.

Neither of them can speak.

They don’t need to.

She’s the one who closes the remaining space, leaping and flinging arms delicate as bird bone around his shoulders, and there’s no reason she should feel so heavy. That this moment should have such weight to it. That Lucy should be able to capture Flynn’s mouth with hers and make him feel victimized by the intensity of his desperate _need_ for Lucy Preston.

He will die if he does not wrap his arms around her back, pressing her against the breadth of his chest. He will die without inhaling her taste. She is coffee, vodka, aging paper. She is the bonfire that books are burned upon as much as the kindling. Their tongues have met in battle, and Flynn’s gathering her hair in his hands, mounding it, molding it, letting himself memorize the feeling of her.

They are against the wall. It’s a good thing; it gives Flynn leverage to press his knee between her thighs, letting her spread over him and relax, bringing them to the same level.

He bites her throat. He laps the sweat along her collarbone.

“Garcia,” she whispers with as much heat and frustration as ever. He likes the way that her grip tugs the roots of his hair.

He lifts his head from nuzzling the hollow of her throat and says, “Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you want.”

Lucy’s eyes are only half-focused. Her lips are still swollen from the kiss. “Everything.”

The hem of her formless sweater lifts. She’s not wearing underneath—a revelation that could almost bring him to his knees. He was expecting to find cloth under his hands, not a rib cage, not the smooth skin between her navel and sternum, not breasts uplifted by puckered nipples that seem to yearn for his mouth.

Flynn tastes them. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, and the other, and Lucy rewards him by bucking her hips against his thigh. He’s got her lifted enough to access her breasts and that means her toes are barely touching the ground. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, urging him on, and he mouths the swells of her bosom. 

She tastes like nineteenth century dirt, like stiff cotton. He softens her with his lips. She makes that sound again. That groaning, wanting sound.

Flynn will not last long like this.

He drops to his knees, leaving her dazed against the wall. He hears seams popping when he yanks her jeans open.

“Garcia,” she says again, this time with the faintest hint of admonition, and he smirks up at her.

“Yes, Lucy?” He draws out her name the way he’d drawn out her now-glistening nipples between his teeth. _Loo-see..._

“Clothes are scarce,” she says with that professorial awkwardness, lecturing him and feeling guilty about it simultaneously.

“You don’t need clothes,” Flynn says.

He nips her hipbone.

Her breath hitches, and her head falls back.

“Garcia.”

He likes that she seems to have forgotten words other than his name. He’s going to make sure she can’t lecture him anymore.

Lucy is wearing plain white underwear, so practical. He breathes against the gusset and inhales the scent of her. There is nothing in the smell except Lucy. Her sweat, her skin, the soft tufts of hair. He presses his nose against her through the cloth and she clutches at his hair and again, she only says, “ _Garcia_.”

Flynn yanks it all down, leaving it tangled around her ankles. The apex of her thighs blossoms before him. Pink and tan, soft and folded and open. He’s so hard for her, painfully stretched within his slacks, and now she’s almost naked while he’s still armored in his maroon turtleneck and it seems right.

He licks her.

“Fuck!” Lucy has remembered another word, probably because her spine bucked when his tongue laved over the moist core of her need, and she’s hit her head.

He laughs against her, drunk on the intoxicating scent between her legs, and he rises with his hands on her hips. He moves her to the bed—a much safer location for Lucy to lose control.

Flynn collapses over her, and without pause, he buries his face between her thighs.

He sucks, nibbles, tastes. Is he imagining the hint of cinnamon in the honey that flows from within her? Does Lucy spill spice and flame when she’s swollen with need?

He could live on this taste.

One large hand smooths over her knee, hooks it over his shoulder. He makes room to maneuver. His lips summit the peaks of her outermost labia and the curve into her buttocks; his tongue burrows between the folds to reach the center.

Lucy’s no longer being verbal, and she hasn’t been quiet for too long.

Flynn almost regrets that he’s not in a place to really savor her cries. She’s tightening her thighs around his head, and her flesh effectively traps him, muffling the surrounding world. It reduces her moans to tremors in her hips, vibrations against his mouth.

He inserts a finger. She is so wet that it enters smoothly, and he has to tighten his arm on her thigh to keep her fixed in place.

“Garcia, _please_ ,” she moans, helpless.

Another finger. Two to widen her, stretch her. He works them in and out and watches the colors on her cheeks and the wild fluttering of her eyelashes and the way she swallows spasmodically.

She’s on the brink.

He growls, “Lucy,” and he strokes her in just the right way at just the right moment.

And the historian comes undone around him.

There’s no way that the entire bunker can’t hear her crying out. They can probably hear her orgasm in the 19th century.

It is among the sweetest sounds Flynn has ever heard, and he can barely hear it because she’s ripping his head off with her knees.

Quite the compliment.

When she is done, she’s boneless on the bed, still halfway tangled in her clothes. Flynn climbs up her body and she peeks at him from under her arm as if she can’t quite focus on anything.

“Garcia,” she whispers.

He gathers her against him. He’s still hard—he might spend the rest of his life with this erection, if its size is any indication—but right now, he wants only to hold Lucy. To feel the beating of her heart against his and know that she’s alive.

That she belongs to him.

Her head nestles against his shoulder as he pulls blankets around them. He rearranges her, covers her.

Flynn almost thinks she’s asleep until she speaks.

“Thanks for saving me,” Lucy says quietly against his shoulder.

He strokes her hair and says, “I will always save you.”

They sleep like that, entwined, no longer burning but smoldering, lost in the warmth of each other without ever wanting to be found.


End file.
